


Delayed Reaction

by Chierei



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Multi, Polyamorous Characters, This is old as shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-28
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chierei/pseuds/Chierei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young love never lasts. Hormones and emotions mix, and you don't realize that twenty years later you won't even remember their name. But years after a breakup, five men wake up and remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Atobe

**Author's Note:**

> This is OLD.
> 
> And it's OT5 (does anyone know what that is anymore). 
> 
> Dear lord, help me. Non-crack-ish.

Atobe pressed his manicured finger down delicately, efficiently ending the call on his cell phone. With a tired sigh, he set the sleek, black phone down near the corner of the mahogany desk, the smooth plastic spinning slightly across the smooth surface in reaction to the sudden movement. He brushed a stray piece of hair away from his eyes are he stared blankly into the lit computer screen, number and figures scrolled across surface in an unintelligible blur. He closed his tired eyes, releasing them from their strain of work, silently willing the headache away.

He opened his eyes slowly after a moment, allowing his gaze to trail to the bottom corner of the screen to read out the time. Late. It was getting late, even for Atobe's strenuous work standard. He stood up from his chair, mentally wincing at harsh scraping of the base of the chair against the dard-wood floor while he moved the computer mouse a few inches in order to save his work. He limbs moved automatically as he moved to shut down the piece of machinery, his free arm already pushing his chair back toward the desk by the time the screen flashed black.

Atobe gripped the edge of table, rebalancing himself after the long period of sitting silently at his desk, expertly balancing the necessary paperwork. As Atobe walked out of the door, he waved his hand to dismiss the servants that waited quietly outside his office. The two remaining maids scattered at his signal, his personal butler customarily falling a step behind Atobe.

Reaching his room, he undressed himself mechanically, giving a small hand signal for his personal butler to bring him his nightly glass of wine. He slid the light purple silk nightshirt over his slim shoulders as he stared out into his garden, his eyes focused on the shimmering half moon that glistened against the raven black sky. The customary ruffles of his shirt tickled against his chest as he stared into nothing, his mind blissfully devoid of any thought.

He remained silent, even as he butler came by, offering the slim glass out to Atobe on a pallet, the sleek surface of the liquid jittering at the movement. Atobe grasped it expertly, bringing it up to his lips to allow the alcohol to slide down his throat. His eyes slid shut as the soft chink of glass and wood met his ears, his servant placing the remaining bottle of wine onto a nearby surface. He only turned around as he heard the door slide shut from behind him, allowing him to set the glass gingerly down onto his nightstand parallel to the burgundy colored bottle as he slid himself under the silken covers. The king-sized bed shifted at the added weight, empty except for its recent occupant.

Atobe despised it. He despised turning around and seeing nothing. He never wanted to admit that even before his wife had moved herself into the eastern hall; it had always been far too empty.

His wife, Hashimaru Keiko, was a beautiful woman from an old and traditional Japanese family whom Atobe had married at his father's urging shortly after he received full control over all of the Atobes' industrial workings. Atobe Industry needed an heir, an heir that only Atobe could provide. So they married, created an heir, and then distanced themselves to the fullest of their abilities and vast resources.

Distance indeed. His wife called a few nights prior, Atobe recalled as he took another sip of wine. France, was it? Or perhaps Italy, he mused. Keiko always did have a fondness for Italy… and its culture. Atobe held back a mirthless chuckle, swirling his wine glass with half-lidded eyes. 'Culture,' he thought dryly.

Atobe ungracefully tilted his head back, allowing the remaining half of wine to slide down his throat. He let the taste flow across his tongue as he set the glass down, savoring the slight tingle the drug left in his mouth. He reached over, grasping the dark glass bottle with pale manicured fingers. He balanced it expertly, the reflection of light hitting his eyes for a moment from the dark colored glass before he shifted the angle. The faint splashing of liquid reached his ears as he poured another glass. As he tilted his head to pour the toxin down his throat, he idly wondered when he started drinking the liquid in such unseemly quantities. 'A few months ago,' he mused. 'Maybe years.'

Atobe stopped counting thing that didn't matter.

As Atobe finished the second glass of wine of with a disdainful relish reaching over to turn off the lamp that settled on the nearby stand, Atobe wondered when everything started.

And he forces himself to sleep before he allows himself to realize that he already knows.

\-----------------------------

The Atobe family had servants. Lots of servants. On average, the family had no less than three dozen full-time workers at the mansion at any given moment. Each year, the family went through at over a hundred new servants. Some would stay in their service for a few years while others left within a week. The family demanded loyalty, silence, promptness, and discretion. However, in return for years as acting as a loyal, well-spoken maid or butler, the family offered not only a hefty paycheck but also a generous retirement settlement.

Few workers actually manage to reap the long time reward, however; the family's utter need for perfection was a main cause of their high turnover rate. Those who stay over the years and has watched over their young master Atobe can't help be realize that despite the grandeur, the wealth, and the fame Atobe Keigo possessed, their young master was still trapped in regret for letting go.

There are a total of two servants under Atobe's employment that still remember the first time Atobe started to play tennis. These two are among the five that even remember the skill their master Atobe held on the tennis court. But those who do remember, those who can bring up the image of a young boy standing on a tennis court, his hand raised in the air to snap once and to be left with a silent crowd, knew that this boy possessed the ability to be great.

Atobe rose. Vice captain to captain. Vice president to class president. He rose quickly to whatever status available, only held back by long standing traditions involving his age. Memories of the years attening Hyotei remain prominent as they gaze at the aged CEO, the image of a teen clad in a blue and white uniform with eyes piercing into nothing as single hand moves in insight overlap that of an overworked man sitting stiffly at a desk, his head bent low as his smoke gray eyes scanned over numbers and letters and graphs.

They remember the comments, the accusations, of the boy's sudden status rise in school. Others thought it was his money, his family.

Then they saw him play.

Those two remaining servants had watched as their young master fought against fallen gods and reigning princes. They watched as the other smiled a secret smile on the court, his muscles moving with poise as he slid across the baseline, his body already bent to continue the rally. They watched as the young master spoke calmly with interest, one hand gripping the smooth plastic container of the cell phone, the oddest spark of something in his eyes, his smirk turning into a true smile. They watched as the young boy played, fought, ruled, and fell.

Atobe Keigo was a character. He was a narcissistic, conceited drama queen who loved attention. He was a charismatic leader who got everything he asked for with a snap though he honestly demanded little. He was a man who could rule over thousands with respect and sublimity while still remaining human.

But perfection is for the naïve, and even Atobe could be a fool when in love.

Some servants watched and realized.

One of them remembers that Atobe was still a teenager in the throes of hormones, curiosity, and first loves.

One of them wonders if Atobe learned anything, even know. Pride means nothing when seen next to what he had. What he gave up.

And both of them only hope that it isn't too late to turn back the clock.

\-----------------------------

Atobe Keigo couldn't sleep.

A sliver of light cut across the darkened room, the result of a slight gap among the dark indigo curtains that framed the glass-paned windows. Atobe shifted restlessly, the dark satin sheets curling around his legs as he attempted to find a comfortable resting spot. His smoke gray eyes stared aimlessly as his wall, his mind blissfully blank for the time as he traced the outline of the curtains with his eyes.

\-----------------------------

_"Keigo, won't you come to bed? It's rather lonely over here without you."_

_"Hn, in a minute. I'm almost done." Click. Click. Click._

_…_

_"It's been a minute, now come to bed."_

_Click. Click. "Just-"_

_"Keigo."_

_A sigh. Then a smirk. Click. Click. "Very well. I suppose that it'd be cruel to deny my lovers my magnificence for any longer."_

_Yawn. "Just shut up and get over here, Monkey King."_

_Smile. "My pleasure."_

\-----------------------------

Atobe turned his head, tearing his eyes away from the curtains to stare blankly at his hand that was curled absently around the tops of the sheet. His fingers traced the seam of the fabric, the feathery bumps of thread gliding under his skin. He didn't know why he thought of that.

He was lying, and he knew it. He knew why he thought of that conversation. Curtains. His hand fisted the sheets for a moment before he unfurled them, stretching his fingers out as he moved them to rest at his side. Ryoma had threatened to burn "those hideous purple curtains you picked out" if Atobe didn't "stop that annoying typing" and help complete the five way orgy that was waiting for him in their joint king-sized bed.

Shuusuke laughed. Kunimitsu gave an amused smile. Genichirou chuckled.

Atobe released a sigh, turning onto his other side as he slid one hand underneath his pillow, savoring the cool touch against his palm. Strands of gray hair fell into eyes he shifted, moving his legs to untangle them from their capture among his sheet. He shifted his hand as the fabric warmed to his temperature, eager to find another cool resting spot. Again his shifted, tilting his head upward toward the fabric canopy over his head to allow the clump of hair to fall back into place and away from his line of vision.

His slid his eyes shut, willing his mind to relax and forget and just sleep.

 

\-----------------------------

_"Genichi-"_

_…_

_…_

_"… Well that was a rather pleasant welcome I must say."_

 

\-----------------------------

Atobe turned again, lying on his back as his left hand was perched limply over his abdomen.

\-----------------------------

_"Stop molesting Ryoma, Keigo."_

_"Saa, Kuni-chan. Let Kei-chan have his fun for now. He has been busy lately."_

_"I must agree with Shuusuke, Kuni-chan. I have been severely overworked these last few days. I think I need something to release this tension that's been building up."_

\-----------------------------

Atobe left hand twitched irritably, his thumb bending to feel the outline of his gold wedding band he wore for the public. His other hand reached over to join its partner; his fingers twisting the plain metal band and jiggling it loose. He gave his fingers a stretch as he opened his eyes, carelessly tossing the ring into his bedside drawer. He brought his hand in front of his face, his keen eyesight catching the outline of his hand despite the lack of lighting. His fingers traced over the small indent the ring had made in his skin. Both hands fell back to his sides with a soft 'flop', a heavy sigh escaping the diva's lips. Gold never was his color, he thought with resignation. However, he couldn't bring himself to pick out a silver one like before.

He swallowed hard as he tried not to think about it again. It. The fivesome he had been ardently involved in for almost two years, otherwise known as the all-male orgy that had been the most exalting experience he could remember.

Atobe didn't want to be reminded of giving up the four men he loved more than anything. He didn't want to remember breaking apart from the passion, the tenderness, the humor, the…

Atobe stopped himself.

\-----------------------------

_"Shuusuke, can you take your hand off my ass please? I have a match tomorrow, and it's hard to sleep when you keep fondling me like that."_

_"That's not me, Ryo-chan. I'm a bit occupied with Gen-chan over here."_

_"Hn."_

_"Thanks, buchou."_

\-----------------------------

Atobe gave up. He slid himself from under the covers, his arm reaching over a few inches to snap the light back. He winced at the sudden illumination, snapping his eyes shut for a few seconds as he adjusted to the sudden onslaught of light. He blinked a few times rapidly as he walked, his right hand hovering slightly out on his side to catch himself from hitting anything in his half-blind state. The quick jolt of shock quickly subsided, and he grabbed a robe from his closet, sliding the azure-colored silk over his shoulders in one smooth movement. He tied the cloth around his waist, the soft feel of carpet against his flesh disappearing as he slid a pair of slippers over his bare feet.

He walked back to his office, all of his night staff politely ignoring him in the hallway as he made his way through the mansion. The lights clicked on as he opened up the large oak doors, and Atobe made his way over to the liquor cabinet whose purpose was deemed as decoration than actual use. He slid the lock open, allowing the glass door to swing open with a barely audible creak. He grabbed a small glass from the side and a elaborate bottle that was filled with a generous amount of amber liquid.

He popped the decorative top of the heavy container, pouring himself a glass, idly watching as the liquid settled in the cup. As he slid the bottle back into the cabinet he found himself amazed at the smooth surface of the liquid that stood in the cup.

A light ripple made its way over the surface as Atobe sat down as his desk, his movements jostling the wooden counter. The miniature waves spread throughout the rest of the exterior layer of the alcohol, crashing into the thick glass walls with an inaudible slosh.

And with a bitter smile, Atobe took a sip.

\-----------------------------

_"…Stay one more night, Keigo? Please?"_


	2. Atobe

_\----------------------------------_

_”This… isn’t working.”_

_Sanada’s head shot up as he removed his attention from his laptop, his piercing brown eyes landing on rich lover. Tezuka paused from his reading, lower the book into his lap as he eyed the diva through his slim silver frames, the customary impassive expression placed firmly over his face. Fuji’s hand stopped in mid motion, still gripped on a small black knob as he fiddled with his newest camera, the lenses flashing in the brightly lit room. Ryoma slid out of their joint closet, his wet hair plastered against his neck from his recent shower as a loose black shirt was pulled over his head and a pair of thin cotton pants hanging low on his slim hips._

_“What are you talking about, Keigo?” Sanada asked, by impulse saving his half-typed essay and turning himself fully around to gaze at their shared lover._

_Atobe fidgeted, his legs crossed delicately as he fiddled with his deep indigo cell phone. The small charm clapped against the plastic sides, making a small clicking sound that was barely audible. He refrained himself from biting his lip as he pointedly avoided the gaze of his four boyfriends. “I…” he said, trailing off uncertainty. He pushed back his pounding heart, willing himself to stop shaking as he spoke the next words. “I’m moving out.”_

_There was a moment of stunned silence where the heir to Atobe Industry took to his advantage as he continued to talk in a rush and shaky voice. “The arrangements have been made already. All my belongings will be moved out within the week. Anything left behind you four may do as you wish with them.” Atobe paused as he gripped his phone tightly, willing his hand to stop shaking as he spoke._

_“…You’re breaking up with us,” Tezuka stated quietly, his voice devoid of any emotion as he assessed the implications of Atobe’s words. His book hung limply in his left hand, his thumb instinctively marking his place as the hard crimson cover rested on his thigh._

_Atobe forced his eyes downward to stare at the edge of the oak desk. His thumb dug into the crack of his newest phone, slipping open the device partially before closing it as a forced distraction. He continued, “You four may keep the apartment for as long as you wish. I shall take care of any expenses that may come about including power and water bills.”_

_There was another period of awkward silence as the four men attempted to distinguish what was happening. Ryoma hadn’t moved, a childish part of his mind praying that this just wasn’t happening and he’s wake up, roll over, and proceed to have morning shower sex with one or two of this lovers._

_His illusion was shattered by Fuji voice “So that’s it, is it Keigo?” he said harshly, his cerulean blue eyes open as blatant ice covered his words. “You had your fun, and now it’s time to pay us off like whores?” His words were biting and cruel, his camera left forgotten on the antique Persian rug as his hands were clutched into tight fist. His prim manicured nails dug into his skin, leaving sharp indentation on his pale flesh._

_Atobe kept himself from answering, from denying that it wasn’t like that. He was about to agree with Fuji’s statement, knowing that a lie could help them get over his departure. Maybe if they hated him, he thought, it wouldn’t hurt as much. Atobe almost laughed at the thought, never thinking himself to be one for cliché romantic self-sacrifice. That was Oshitari’s department after all._

_The words never left his mouth. He had turned to Fuji, his mind already preparing itself for the arrogant lies that would wholeheartedly agree with Fuji’s assessment, before he found himself staring blankly at the opposite wall. The stinging coursed through his face, dissipating as quickly as it came, leaving Atobe in a shocked silence. His cell phone lied on the ground; the screen snapped shut as the small bell connected to the charm gave a light ring as it rolled against the carpet, despite the fact that Atobe never remember dropping it._

_Sanada stood poised over Atobe, his hand still poised from his attack. “Don’t you dare, Keigo,” he said, his voice stern with anger emanating from the edges of the words. “Don’t you dare,” he repeated, “think you can just get up and leave and pretend like nothing happened.”_

_Tezuka stood up from his comfortable lounge, placing books carelessly on the coffee table to his left, not bothering to stop and mark his place. He strode over to the pair, betraying none of his emotions as he moved. “Genichirou,” he said softly, placing one hand over Sanada’s still raised arm. He put a light pressure on the limb, forcing it back to his tall lover’s side and giving his hand a light squeeze before he pulled away._

_He turned his hazel eyes back to his gray-haired lover, meeting his eyes through glass frames. “Keigo,” he said, his monotonous words piercing into the silence. “Explain this. Now.” His words were sharp, an authoritative edge lacing his voice._

_Atobe removed his hand from his stinging cheek, gathering up his composure within seconds. He forced his most arrogant huff from the back of his throat, turning his head to the side as he gave a flippant gesture with his hand. “There’s nothing to explain.” He turned his eyes to meet the former Seigaku captain, hoping that he wouldn’t fall apart. “It’s just as Shuusuke said. It was fun, but I need something new to capture my interest.” A smirk fell on his mouth, “And, being the generous being that I am, only found it to be fair to give you the apartment. It’s not as if it’ll be a great hindering on my rather vast fortune, now would it?”_

_The lie tasted bitter as it left the tip of his tongue, and without looking he already knew that the brunette didn’t believe a single word._

_\----------------------------------_

 

 _‘Bah.’_ Ryoma shook himself out of his stupor, reaching over to twist the clear crystal knob to shut off the water. The glass door was fogged from the hot shower, light tendrils of steam still seen curling around itself in the light. Ryoma pulled his hair back, squeezing out the liquid from his short hair. He gave his head a sharp shaking, allowing the water to splatter against the door, the droplets blending in against the door with those remaining from the powerful showerhead.

 

Ryoma hated thinking. Ryoma was impulsive and he had gotten far enough in life with acting on impulse, bypassing the usual censoring notions that most people go through before acting. Thinking just complicated things. 

 

         But after a long hard day of instructing a batch of kids barely hitting puberty about which end of the tennis racket you hold, he was too exhausted to really care now. He hated being around kids when they were his peers, so why they heck would he enjoy it _now_? Sometimes he regretted even offering his services as a teacher. The pay was beyond reasonable as it was amazing what the rich and powerful are willing to put out to have their children taught by a former professional tennis player.

 

         Ryoma scoffed at the thought. His tennis might have been one of the most memorable in history but that didn’t make him any better as a teacher. Parents were actually better off hiring someone well-trained in teaching while being mediocre at actually playing tennis. Not that he would tell them that. If some rich bastard wanted to waste money trying to drill tennis concept into the head of a ten-year-old who really didn’t give a flying fuck by a teacher who equally didn’t care, then Ryoma sure as hell wasn’t going to stop them.

 

         _‘Hm,’_ Ryoma contemplated as he toweled his hair dry, a second towel already slung over his hips as he stood in front of the fogged mirror. Maybe that was where the sudden memory had come from.

 

_“I know it’s not as grand as my usually standards, but I’m afraid at such short notice, there is only so much even I can do.”_

_“…”_

_“Most of my staff is actually on vacation so we might be a little short-handed in terms of cooks and a few maids but it’s nothing we can’t handle, I’m sure.”_

_“…”_

_“The west wing and library area are currently under some renovation according to the so it might be a bit of a tight fit. However, I’ve rented out the back beach for the next few miles so we don’t have to be worried about privacy.”_

_“Keigo.”_

_“Yes, Genichirou?”_

_“Shut up.”_

 

Atobe was wealth reincarnated and the man had no qualms against using his money to pamper is lover, whether they wanted it or not.

 

         But that was the past, and Echizen Ryoma always hated History.

 

\---------------

 

Echizen Ryoma swept the tennis world by storm. At age twelve, he entered the pro world as quickly as he left it, winning the U.S. Open before disappearing back into Japan. When questioned later on why he didn’t stay within the professional tennis world, Ryoma gave a bored, clear, and perfectly textbook answer of wanting to finish his schooling.

 

So when the Samurai Junior appeared into another major tennis tournament barely a month after high school graduation, there were no questions as to why.

 

Despite the boy’s fame and reputation, it was far too much to think that he went undefeated, a task that was all but impossible. But Echizen Ryoma was famous for never losing to the same person more than once in his entire pro career, whether it was in an official match or a friendly game.

 

He went undefeated in his first two years as a professional tennis player, achieving a True Grand Slam in his first year as a professional tennis player by winning all four Grand Slam tournaments the same year.

 

He lost in the semi-final round of the Monte Carlo Masters when he was twenty-one, to the number one seed in Europe with a score of four to six. Barely four months later in the semi-finals of the U.S. open, Echizen reclaimed victory with a final score of seven to five. In coincidental match almost a year later in the quarterfinals of the Australian Open, he won with six games to three.

 

Echizen Ryoma moved into the number one spot in men’s singles in tennis, taking sixteen Grand Slam titles in his eight year career, knocking down Pete Sampras to second in total championship titles who had obtained a total of fourteen Grand Slam titles that was won over his fifteen year career.

 

         Echizen Ryoma was infamous among the press for being difficult to book an interview with and near impossible to gain a substantial answer from. So when Echizen announced his official retirement at age twenty-six, the world was baffled. The young Japanese player had never answered directly as to why he retired when his career could have easily been prolonged another five years. Most of this was the handiwork of his manager, a patient man twenty years Ryoma’s senior.

 

         A wise choice considering that the older man didn’t think the tennis star’s answer of seeing a lack of proficient opponent would sit too well with the rest of the professional tennis world.

 

Echizen Ryoma became a legend. He gained everything he could have wanted, surpassing even his father’s wildest dreams.

 

His life was perfect. He had achieved everything he every wanted.

 

So why was it that when he slipped into bed next to his sleeping girlfriend, did he feels so empty?

 

\--------------------------------------

 

Tezuka Kunimitsu went pro at age twenty-two, taking a break from his studies to travel abroad and play. In his brief pro tennis career, his managed to win two Grand Slam titles. He created the second largest upset in the last five decades of pro tennis history by being an unknown rookie, topped only by the overwhelming upset caused by one Echizen Ryoma, the ultimate wild card and underdog who won his first Grand Slam title at age twelve.

 

And barely a year out of his career, did he announce his retirement. He “felt that continuing his studies took precedence over tennis”.

 

Ryoma wandered if this was true. For some reason he couldn’t see his former captain giving up tennis to study law.

 

Then again, Ryoma didn’t have the right to judge anymore. Ultimately, _he_ had been the one to walk out on them.

 

Ryoma always found it ironic that he never met his ex-lover on the courts, or elsewhere after the break-up. The two Grand Slam tournaments that Tezuka dominated were coincidently two that Ryoma had bypassed that year. The first being the French Open where Ryoma’s father had been hospitalized for a heart attack. Though his father he recovered and was fine, Ryoma had invented some excuse to stay nearby, never once admitting that he had left on a plane back to the States without a word to even his manager when he heard. The second, Wimbledon, he had bypassed because Karupin ate a sock and needed surgery. The twenty-year old had been unwilling to leave his cat so shortly after the operation, despite the fact that both the veterinarian and his manager assured him that, _yes_ , Karupin was perfectly fine, and _yes_ , all laundry was safely kept out of the cat’s reach. And Ryoma wasn’t willing to risk taking his cat overseas.

 

His manager never figured out whether this was an excuse since Ryoma just didn’t want to go through the trouble of “beating the shit” out of some amateur players or if he was actually serious about missing an international tournament because of his _cat_.

 

He was almost afraid to think it was most likely the latter.

 

\--------------------------------------

 

_“Shuusuke?” Ryoma asked, the two of them intertwined in a picture of limbs on their joint bed. The three missing parts of their orgy had been busy with class and/or business, and Ryoma had easily managed coerced the playful prodigy into bed with him._

_“Hm?” Shuusuke answered, running a hand along the contours of Ryoma’s soft pliant body in content afterglow._

_“Why can’t everything be like tennis?”_

 

Ryoma was out of bed. He couldn’t sleep. Again.

 

Ryoma was beyond being annoyed at this reoccurring annoyance in his sleep schedule. He was just so tired now. He felt _old_. He hurriedly tossed his covers aside, careful not to jostle his still sleeping girlfriend.

 

Girlfriend. He almost sneered at the term alone. He had never been one for relationships but after six years of on-and-off dating, he didn’t know what to do. The relationship wasn’t going anywhere, Ryoma knew it and he was certain she did as well. Everyone expected him to propose any day now, including himself. Ring and all had been bought nearly a year ago after constant nagging from his father yet he had never managed to bring himself to ask.

 

And Ryoma didn’t want to admit that it was because part of his mind was still living in a fantasy. Part of him still felt that pulling himself into marriage meant that his relationship with _them_ was officially gone.

 

Ryoma forced a scoff at the though. That was foolish. It’s been almost two decades now. It would be pathetic to still be pining after some stupid long lost love(s) after this long. Ryoma wanted to slap himself. He had moved on. Love doesn’t last that long, let alone one that started when he had barely hit puberty.

 

He was going to be engaged. He had a beautiful girlfriend he met nearly a year after he finished his degree in business management. She was pretty thing, fun, cheerful, and the exact opposite of him. She played tennis, not good enough to go pro but enough to where they could hold a decent discussion regarding the sport.

 

Uncharacteristically, he thought he was in love. They dated, their relationship fluctuating due to her need for commitment and mixture of Ryoma’s natural aloof personality and his hidden reluctance to finally let go.

 

Nonetheless, they never officially broke up.

 

And now they were stuck in limbo.

 

Ryoma sighed and rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a month. Even when he did mange to sleep a few hours, he’d wake up even more tired than when he fell asleep. Every time he took his girlfriend out, he’d finger the small velvet box before putting it off once again. Business was good, too good. He had more appointments than time in addition to legal paperwork and keeping up with his own practice times. He was dead tired and frankly just… sick of it all.

 

And for the first time in years, after weeks of exhaustion, insomnia, and stress, Ryoma finally just... stopped trying to pretend he didn’t care anymore.

 

“Buchou,” he whispered into the deadly night air, the melodic chirping of crickets carried by the cold night wind as he stared at the crescent moon half covered by clouds. He leaned against the railing, a robe hanging limply over his night clothes that did little to shield himself from the chill of the October evening. His golden eyes closed as he let the familiar word sweep over his body after so many years. “Buchou,” he repeated as he opened his eyes to let them glisten against the pale and weak moonlight. “Shuusuke. Genichirou. Monkey King.”

 

He tilted his head, turmoil and regret swirling in his eyes. “What do I do now?”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

_“Because if it was, that’d make everything too easy.”_

 

\--------------------------------------


End file.
